Monday, June 18, 2007

RETRACTION, APOLOGY

I would like to apologize for belittling my mother and underestimating her intelligence on immigration matters, as posted last week. She has a weird sense of humor when it comes to forwarding me emails--she just likes to get me riled up (well done!)...also, upon further reflection, I do realize how crass and puerile I sounded in my post through over-use of the term "retard", in some instances shortening it to "'tard".

I hope that I did not offend anyone by using the term. I do realize how ostensibly offensive it is to the mentally retarded to be compared to xenophobic conservatives. Maybe someone should sick the Grammar Hammer on me:

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Saturday, June 16, 2007

QUOTE POP QUIZ

Who is responsible for the following quote:

"Toi and moi have lived through about as bad times as ever were. I don't mean just wars. Wars are spinach. Life in general is the tough part."

a) D.H.Lawrence

b) Charlie Chaplin

c) Katharine Hepburn

d) Ernest Hemingway

Answer is here.(Note: the geniuses at this website left a grammatical correction note in the text. It's not 'Spinach cap.')

Friday, June 15, 2007

SHE'S CRAFTY

The other day I had a wonderful visit with my beautiful friend Tessa, who has cleverly transferred her comics images to patches of fabric. She signed mine all special-like:

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Her use of fabric to display her art reminded me of an exhibit I visited twice this month on First Thursdays at 49 Geary, "The Wonder of You" by Orly Cogan. There were massive quilts filled with pastel stitchings of nude figures, zoo animals, lots of drugs and cupcakes. My friend Sean called it "very born-again Christian":

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I love everything about reclaiming the domestic arts for decidedly undomestic means. Why embroider "Home is Where the Heart Is", when you could be quoting Charles Bukowski or making an anti-war statement? I particularly like this group of anarchist knitters responsible for this fine piece of work:

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Crafty ladies I salute you.

Thursday, June 14, 2007

ILLEGAL IMMIGRATION FRUSTRATION

Today I lashed out at my mother via email at a completely asinine letter she had forwarded to me, written by some frustrated, conservative Iowa crackpot (I think she might have found it humorous and somehow politically forthright). It was entitled, "A Great Deal!" This idiot had the nerve to tell the Honorable Senator Tom Harkin that he was looking for ways to declare status as an illegal immigrant, as, under new immigration law approved by Harkin, he would only have to pay a $2,000 fee and taxes for three of the past five years. Also, the pantload (my dad's favorite insult) went on to say that he would enjoy the local ER as his primary health provider (has he ever been to one? they're a joke! wtf?), and the "preferential treatment" his daughter would receive in applying to law school, as I'm sure admissions offices to pricey law schools are bombarded with applicants with migrant working backgrounds.

Bottom line, I know what the pantload was going for: he feels cheated by the system. But why is it that when the system fails hard-working American citizens, the first thing most conservatives do is attack minority groups with absolutely no political voice who, might I add, are paying social security for services they will never receive? Illegal immigrants are nothing more than scapegoats for bombastic retards like this dude who have no concept of how this country operates and who it institutionally fucks over. Upon comprehensive studies on the subject, I have devised this pie chart with information taken from the US Department of Health from a study entitled, "How you are getting fucked on the whole health care thing/who shapes your disinterest in defending your rights to fair coverage":

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Has anyone ever dared to venture what would compel a person to risk their lives to come to this messed up country to begin with? Is it really to take advantage of our system? Are illegal aliens really living off the fat of the land? Was I the only one in the world to read, this past December, that 1 in every 20 Hispanics in our country dies of hunger each year?

Oh and they are bringing leprosy in record numbers!!! Or that's what you would believe if you swore by that 'tard Lou Dobbs, who made this declaration on his crappy "news" program by citing some douchebag lawyer and Renaissance studies scholar who, in speeches, claimed that Mexican immigrants habitually molest children and rape is as serious to them as stealing cows back in their home villages. Her name is Dr. Madeleine Cosman, and I'm glad she's dead.

Read this article, get some perspective and shut the hell up.

P.S. Sorry mom.
A RICKY GERVAIS VALENTINE

Send it to someone you love, or someone who fears you.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

PICTURES FROM MY SECRET SPY PHONE (and SF political roundup)

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Oh look kids, here's a picture I shot at the Asian Heritage Festival a few weeks ago, which was right around the corner from where I live in the SOMA. The tall cracker in the center is not a Steven Seagal stunt double, but none other than San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom! When Gavin's not initiating sexy policies like free wi-fi and gay marriage for all, or sleeping with his co-workers' peers or b-movie actresses or underage Republican models, apparently he can be found posing with Asian beauty queens! (Yes, I am bitter because he won't be my boyfriend, despite all the love/stalking I have shown him).

In other local San Fran political news, Supervisor Ed Jew, who is not a Jew but actually Asian, is also not authorized to represent the Sunset District, as he was found guilty of lying about his current residency. He was arrested this morning but is now out on bail. He basically used his mommy and daddy's address as his own--ooh, and the authorities only checked his "home" because they were investigating him on extortion charges. What kind of moron performed the proof of residency anyways? I bet it would be easier for me to falsely represent a district than open a video rental account. I digress...I don't want to be a Jew.
A STORY TO MAKE YOU THINK DEEP THOUGHTS

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"He was a cowboy, mister, and he loved the land. He loved it so much, he made a woman out of dirt, and married her, but when he kissed her, she disintegrated. Later, at the funeral, when the preacher said "dust to dust", some people laughed, and the cowboy shot them. At his hanging, he told the others, "I'll be waiting for you in Heaven, with a gun."
– Jack Handey

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

ON PARIS HILTON

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I feel a little hung over from all the hoopla surrounding the yo-yoing prison jaunts of Paris Hilton. Yes I delighted in Sarah Silverman’s comments at the MTV Movie Awards about Hilton chipping her teeth on the prison bars — like many Comedy Central viewers, I take great joy in the roasting of celebrities, no matter how harsh and offensive, as well as at what mental cost in to the subject.

It’s easy to gleefully rejoice in the misfortune of celebrities — when beautiful, glamorous women get fat, are cheated upon, display quizzical mental states — trash culture media and its adherents bask in the spectacle like a Roman holiday. Celebrity gossip mags and websites and VH1 are founded on the innate human indulgences of the proles.

However, I’m starting to genuinely feel compassion for Ms. Hilton. As much as I despised her reality TV show where she mocked the other half, and am disgusted by her ability to take an accidental pornographic incident and turn it into an empire of sorts, I do not think she should be spending time in prison for reckless driving. Of course her failure to comply with the law is not something to be taken lightly — but prison, really?

I’m sure many Hilton haters are gleefully imagining the dynamics of the princess among the paupers, fantasizing about how she’s finally going to face those little people, and they’re going to be brutal and unforgiving. Money can’t get you out of this one sweetheart. But who makes up the current prison population in the US? What types of women are currently behind bars — are they violent, insane, hard-bitten butchies?

According to the Women in Prison Project, a study conducted by the Correctional Association of New York, incarcerated women aren’t simply the gender counterparts to male inmates.

•29% of women in state prisons nationally are mentally ill, a rate significantly higher than the male inmate population or the general population. Nearly 8 in 10 female mentally ill inmates report having experienced physical or sexual abuse.

•Nearly 20% of incarcerated mothers report being homeless in the year prior to their incarceration.

•The majority of women inmates are incarcerated for non-violent crimes such as prostitution, fraud or drug offenses.

And in the UK, the Howard League for Penal Reform claims that 70 women have died in prison in the past ten years, compared with only one who took her own life between 1985 and 1990. Self-inflicted deaths among women constituted 12.5% of all suicides in UK prisons, although women only make up 6% of the total prison population.

If only the public conversation could shift from the current schadenfreude to what’s going in women’s prisons: why are so many women so readily incarcerated when it’s clear that they are in desperate need of basic rehabilitation programs?

Yesterday I was flipping through a trashy British fashion rag I am bizarrely addicted to. Hilton was snapped, in her alien sunglasses and gluttonously massive handbag, clinging to two books: the Holy Bible and "The Power of Now". If that doesn't scream mentally off, I don't know what does.

Monday, June 11, 2007

ON HOLD

As I type this, I have been on hold with the Embarcadero Center post office for nearly 45 minutes and have no desire for it to ever end. I am in a purgatorial state of grace--a lavish, soothingly euphonious netherworld where I have an excuse to be unproductive for a spell while chained to this grim cubicle. Muzac envelops me, easing my tension and causing me to envision marble-lined elevators and a corporate lobby of muted asian decor...I am in rapture as I listen to smiley voices beckoning me to purchase more postal services, I picture them as 50s-style caricatures with oversized heads and teeth that sparkle:

...premium international shipping with global express guaranteed...run a business or a more secure way of receiveing mail...only you have the key...heading for london, tokyo or shanghai?...get your passport application faster by requesting expedited servce...now you can buy stamps at everyday places...

Here's a fun photo:
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Thursday, June 07, 2007

VIETNAMESE AMUSEMENT PARK OF THE DAMNED
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Today I read about this Suoi Tien Park near Hanoi, a Buddhist-themed water park, aquairium, crocodile farm and campground. Naturally. Attractions include Heaven Palace, a recreation of what eternal life would be like for exiles of hell after years of drugs, gambling, adultery, etc etc...sound familiar? Probably because fundamentalist Christians have been doing a haunted house version of it every Halloween.

There is also entertainment:
"Should you, our honored guest, want to enjoy music and song programs, please come to Frog Stage containing of over 5,000 persons or to other big stages, at the same time, you can enjoy the music and fresh air after a week of tiresome labor."

Frog Stage I'm all over it. And another thing you can't get in the US and A is a "Bat Cave with Innumerable Bats". Or how about "1,500 crocodiles of all sizes which cause fearful feeling for tourist"! Yesss.
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Of its conception and construction, the site explains: "People of the 'open door time' now have constructed a brilliant cultural work". Who are these "open door time" people and what do they want from me?

My excitement for this amusement park quickly bowed to a fevered nervousness (I don't know if it's the caffeine, or pure raw fear that is making my little hands shake at this very second) when I noticed that I was visitor number 066006. But that's not all--I returned to the site FOUR HOURS LATER and this is what the bottom of the screen said:
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What the hell.

Monday, June 04, 2007

THIS DUDE WANTS A LITTLE LAW, A LITTLE ORDER, A LITTLE WHITEHOUSE ACTION
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The meat in the lady sandwich wants to be our new King of Democracy.

Former Republican Tennessee senator, as well as Law and Order sex kitten, Fred Thompson, filed papers on Friday to begin raising funds for his presidential bid. Why should anyone care? Why is this not the equivalent of Gary Coleman running for Governor of California? Because none other than George P. Bush (yes there are billions of bluebloods with the name George Bush and using frivolous middle initials), our dear president's nephew, is reaching out to his GOP cronies for contributions. And former counselor to Dick Cheney, Mary Matalin, will be his advisor. And Lawrence B.Lindsey, W's first economic policy advisor and tax cut architect is going to be his economic policy main man.

Although he doesn't have an official website, he does have a store.

Unfortunately no punching bags or dart boards are being sold at this time.
ENERGY: You can get with this, or you can get with that

This summer, if you find yourself lazily sedated upon hot sands, staring vacantly into the great blue horizon full of natural wonder, think of Delaware, and think of this:
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From WaPo, an artist's mathematically-sound rendering shows what a newly-approved wind farm could look like to northern Delaware beachcombers. Imagine 413-ft-tall white monstrosities, with blades stretching taller than the Statue of Liberty.

It seems that wind power is really picking up momentum. A report by the U.S. Dept of Energy claims the U.S. produces roughly 16% of the total world wind market, and has the fastest-growing wind capacity in the world, with over 61% of the total wind power capacity installed since Bush took office in '01. According to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, over 153 million people (over half the total U.S. pop) live in 673 coastal counties; this includes the Great Lakes region--that's a lot of potential beachcombers, many of which assuredly will hold a strong sense of a "not in my backyard" mentality. As strange and discomforting as this view may appear, I think I'd rather look at some creepy white blades than oil rigs, like the ones shown in this shot off the Gulf of Mexico:

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Plus, there's the whole getting off the oil thing. That too.

Friday, June 01, 2007

STARBUCKED: show some self respect
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This morning I found myself just outside my corporate digs 15 minutes early and still a little drowsy from the night before. As naturally as it is to playfully kick a pigeon whenever the bird-rodent should come in one's path, I found my feet leading me somewhere else, somewhere comforting, somewhere like...Starbucks.

But it wasn't a comfort, and it wasn't like the satisfaction one must get (hypothetically) when one's sneaker gently brushes up against the grimy tailfeathers of a loathesome avian beast. I stopped in the midst of a cable car track, with oncoming traffic to my left which I acknowledged with a blithe wave, and looked, horrified, at the massive line of caffeine-deprived zombies stretching almost around the entire block as if there were a rock concert. Yeah who knows, maybe Jerry Garcia was in there pulling an Elvis, handin' out soy orange mocha low-cal lattes. But I wasn't about to find out.

"Show some goddam self respect!" I yelled, one hand cupping my mouth to make myself feel like I was louder, and the other flailing about madly. Or at least that's what I did..in my head.

I hate Starbucks. The first time I ever tried their house blend, I immediately ran to the nearest outdoor trash bin and projectile vomited. Then I proudly exclaimed, happy with my new find, "That's a damn fine cup of coffee!" But times were different then...before the war. Back then I went to the LA warehouses and I listened to the techno, tripping the light fantastic on substances I dare not speak the name of, and trying to knock the invisible balls out of neo-hippies' hands. There were even times when I felt particularly daring and would show up at a morning ballet class while in college, doped up on the godless black sauce of destruction, only to find that pirouettes would be my ultimate demise. I would get dizzy and have to sit some exercises out. I felt like an after-school special. Only I wasn't anorexic or on performance-enhancing drugs. I was Starbucked (use your own expletives to come up with crafty variations, this is a family blog.)

Upon years of reflection I have come to find that vomit-inducing caffeinated substances do not a balanced morning routine make. Yet I must have me a fine cappucino, there is something about the subtle caffeine kick and the foam. Oh the frothy foam! It's a miraculous thing when you find a perfect cup with a perfectly whipped foam--like the miraculous way Denny's does hashbrowns. I became obsessed with making foam as a waitress, and the result oftentimes left me covered in milk and the butt of many a joke and manager's grimace.

I asked myself why I hate Starbucks today. Yeah, it was one of them deep thinkin kind of days, and I reverted back to my unsubstantiated belief that Starbucks did not practice fair trade. I did look for the fair trade label on some bags of coffee about five years ago and none was to be found. All that the PR department put on the bag was something like, "Starbucks really thinks it would be peachy if laborers in Sumatra were paid a liveable wage, we're gonna get right on that...yeah...we really are ethical, if not in practice by intention!"

But alas I am wrong. They have actually gone fair and I have nothing to complain about except their Wal-Mart approach to competition, but come on, if I went on hating every chain there ever was on that premise, I'd just be one of those annoying assholes who takes to vegetarianism and uses alternative fuels because they can afford the luxury and turns their nose up at anyone else who cannot. Anyways...I take Starbucks over other shops because they have vanilla powder. Seriously that's it.

I hate Starbucks (insert Nat King Cole melody here) for sentimental reasons...

Thursday, May 31, 2007

CHART AND GRAPH INADEQUACY

This morning my boss asked me to devise a chart based upon data from the US Dept of Labor, Commerce, etc to compliment an article I had written about small businesses in California. What I soon came to realize was that I am completely incompetent in this department, and came up with the following graphic explaining my incompetence...

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he had me create an index instead.

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

LET ME BE YOUR INFORMATION CHOREOGRAPHER (or not)

From the May issue of Harper's Magazine:

"The promise of the Internet-as-Alexandria is more than the roiling plentitude of information. It's the ability of individuals to choreograph that information in idiosyncratic ways, the hope that individuals might feel invited by the gravitational pull of a broad and open commons to 'rip, mix, and burn'-to curate. This new sort of curator, in effect, is one definition of a blogger: an amateur experimental librarian for the Internet, the curator of (in blogger/writer Cory Doctorow's phrase) a digital 'Wunderkrammer', a private informational choreographer who has made her alignments public."
--Gideon Lewis-Kraus, "A World in Three Aisles"
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Wednesday, May 23, 2007

RON PAUL FOR PRESIDENT?



I'm not sure how I feel about "Republican" Ron Paul and his bid for the presidential nomination. I've watched quite a few of his rants on C-SPAN, and while I highly agree with the anti-war left who embrace his staunch position against America-as-global-policemen, I can't help but wonder if his motives are a bit more sinister than your average Democrat for pulling out of Iraq. I think he's a Libertarian in sheep's clothing, basically. And while he was never officially affiliated with the party, he won their nomination for President in 1988.

But if this is what the future of the Republican party looks like, a swing to the taxophobic social Darwinist perspective which covets the Constitution over the Old Testament, then I can't complain too much. Fortuately for the GOP, he falls into all five characterists of a "real conservative", according to the "Conservative Exodus Project" (CEP), which was born from a more recent CPAC meeting:

1) He must oppose the "third-world invasion of the United States and reject amnesty and any path to citizenship for illegals."
2) He must "oppose free trade, the support of which has become an ideological suicide pact."
3) He must be a "moral candidate, critical of secularism, who embodies the virtues of the Christian Western tradition."
4) He must oppose the "illegal neocon war in Iraq."
5) He must "wish to see big government reduced in size-in all three branches-and for many offices and functions to be returned to the states, where they Constitutionally belong."

Well actually, perhaps he's not such a Libertarian if he adheres to #2... and #3, well, I'm not sure his stance on that one--I do know he is strongly pro-life and pro-gun if that's any indication of his "Christian Western" traditional values.

For the record, he refused three of his children a federally-subsidized student loan, and insists of denying himself a congressional pension. That's all well and good for a wealthy medical practioner-cum-politician, but for the masses (myself included), federal aid and governmental intervention in social programs granting all Americans liberty and equality are quite constitutionally sound. Why the conservative, nay the Libertarian, logic doesn't follow this basic tenet is beyond me. And that's why I am afraid of "Republicans" like Paul.

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

MAKING THE GIPPER SMILE POSTHUMOUSLY

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Upon consulting the Senate Chamber Daily Digest on the Library of Congress' website, I discovered that there were sooo many critical measures passed yesterday!!!

While the comprehensive plan to overhaul immigration is in the works (for serious it totally is, any day now we'll have an awesome new policy for immigrants that everyone will love!), two new measures DID get passed, and now I can sleep at night.

I am so happy our elected officials have their decision hats on today, passing two new measures as of May 21, 2007:

1. S.Res 130: Designating July 28, 2007 as "National Day of the American Cowboy"

and

2. S.254: Awarding a Congressional gold metal to artist Constantino Brumidi

--oh, and under "measures reported" the LOC listed the establishment of a new committee, called the "Star Spangled Banner and War of 1812 Bicentennial Commission". Did I mention Constantino Brumidi has been dead since 1880?

Yeah old Ronnie would be smiling down upon the rotunda, whose innards are graced with Brumidi's frescoed depiction of George Washington-as-god in the "Apotheosis of Washington". Although, it's safe to say the Gipper wasn't the artsy fartsy type--he much preferred bronze scuptures of cowboys to Sistine Chapel-esque frescos or any piece of art with the slightest reference to antiquity. Specifically, the Gip was a fan of Frederic Remington, whose silver statue of "Bronco Buster" depicts a cowboy in a rodeo; it graced the Oval Office during his entire tenure. You can now purchase a limited-edition replica for the bargain basement price of $30,000 act now, it's at conservativebookservice.com!

Here are some highlights of S.Res 130, or the designation of July 28 as "National Day of the American Cowboy":

Whereas that cowboy spirit continues to infuse the Nation with its solid character, sound family values, and good common sense;

Whereas the cowboy loves, lives off of, and depends on the land and its creatures, and is an excellent steward, protecting and enhancing the environment;

Whereas rodeo is the sixth most-watched sport in the United States;

Whereas to recognize the American cowboy is to acknowledge the ongoing commitment of the United States to an esteemed and enduring code of conduct...

Wow, only in America would genocide and environmental devastation figure quaintly into an "esteemed and enduring code of conduct".

Today I realized that Congresspersons are just like me in the workplace, we know we've got business to attend to, but somehow get distracted by our own ego-stroking vanity projects (like, ahem, perhaps blogging).

Thursday, May 10, 2007

BANKSY...REVEALED!?

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Gentleman art historian Brian Sewell, whose BBC travelogue "The Grand Tour" I enjoyed so very much last year with its tongue-in-cheek tales of sordid "sexsual" affairs (how he pronounces it in perfect Queen's English), has apparently revealed the UK street artist Banksy's true identity. I don't know how, and I don't know when this picture was posted, but it was on Sewell's official website, so it must be legit. If you take a look at the New Yorker's current peice about Bansky and his anonymous mystique, you'll see why this is kind of a big deal...

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

EVERYTHING GOOD IS BURNING

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Is what my friend Jeff said in an email last week when DC's Eastern Market was, according to reports, "accidentally" set ablaze, leaving $20 mil worth of damages and 13 merchants displaced. The train station-looking brick building, which I lived just a few apartments down from during my internship stint, was in continuous operation from 1873 until just last week. The niche delis and food stands were always bustling, but it was the outdoor farmer's market which really drew in the masses on the weekends, and really made it a local treasure.

Now just this morning I am hearing that my very favorite hallmark of the Hollywood Hills, one of the very few spots in all of Los Angeles where you can study the stars, admire the incredible views, and revisit James Dean territory, has been set ablaze as well. 600 acres gone!!! 300 people evacuated too. And as for unpredictable catastrophe in general, I would be a complete asshole if I failed to mention the tornado tragedy that destroyed the small town of Greensburg, Kansas claiming 11 lives--a situation not likely to get any better due to the fact that the National Guard is preoccupied elsewhere.. anyhow. I was shaken, so the only thing to do, naturally, was to consult the Rapture Index. The "Prophetic Speedomer of End-Time Activity" would tell me if the End of Days was not, well, one day closer.

Ladies and gentleman brace yourself: index levels have now reached 157, which means "Heavy Prophetic Activity," according to the website (oh by the way that's raptureready.com). Unfortunately, "fire" wasn't it's own item, but "wild weather" was, and it ranked a 5--the highest ranking you can get! It's right up there with "Crime Rate" and "Persia(Iran)". Quite luckily, however, "Kings of the East" and "Mark of the Beast" have not reached 5 just yet. Also, "Liberalism" is waning.
I CRIED SO HARD LAST NIGHT

Because I just had to read all the creepy Twilight Zone-bizarro details of little American children emotionally attaching themselves to lifesize, cardboard replicas of their fathers (some cases mothers) on duty in Iraq...it just doesn't seem right.
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read about "flat daddies" in the nytimes here: http://www.nytimes.com/2006/09/30/us/30daddy.html?ex=1317268800&en=ac9e5a35391575ed&ei=5090&partner=rssuserland&emc=rss

Sunday, April 29, 2007

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HELLO DALAI!

All day Friday and all day Saturday (yes I most shamefully requested Friday off from work even though it was my first week there) I could be found, along with about 40,000 other eager wannabe-disciples, in the Bill Graham Civic Auditorium for a special teaching from His Holiness, the 14th Dalai Lama.

It had been nearly five years since I last saw him. My first time was in Mountain View, and he was slated to give a public talk filled with simple Q&A sessions. The only lingering semblance of a memory I have of the prelude to that event was the Christian Evangelicals with protest signs practically the size of billboards which read something like "Buddhists Burn in Hell", "Hell" ever-so-artistically drawn in flaming letters. And when the waddling, ever-so-humble man of saffron and burgundy made his entrance, it was evident to the hushed crowds nearing 10,000 crammed into the grassy outdoor stadium that something magical was about to occur. I remember when someone from the crowd asked him how to simply incorporate the teachings of loving-kindness and compassion into their every day lifestyle sans meditation -- he just gave a hearty chuckle and said he didn't know. But right before his translator/assistant was about to move on to the next question, he gave many beautiful suggestions. One of which was to always be alert and aware of the world at large. When you listen to the news, listen close and internalize the experiences of those people in the seemingly-intangible corner of the globe from which the stories are told. I truly took that to heart, and perhaps that is why I am on enough Prozac and Aderol to kill an elephant. (Okay that's a joke, I'm really not depressed and I don't do prescription drugs, although I have oftentimes been filled with enough rage to kill an elephant with my bare hands.)

But this time was so much different, he gave a special teaching whereby he was to interpret selected passages from "In Praise of Dependent Origination", a highly influential treatise on the relationship between dependent origination and the Buddhist concept of emptiness. The two days I spent were four hours each, with two-hour breaks in between in order for the older folk nodding off to graze and feast upon troughs of Starbucks coffee.

The first day was a bit intense and repetitive. The Dalai reviewed the "Hymn to the World Transcendent". The stanza which really blew me away went a little something like this:

"In permanence there is no samsara and nirvana;
In impermanence too there is no samsara and nirvana.
You, supreme among those who've realized suchness,
You've declared samsara to be like a dream"

Okay so, implicitly, there must be a middle way? Since nary a Taoist perspective was to be incorporated in this strictly traditional Tibetan teaching, elaborations were not to be explored.

Words escape me when I feebly attempt to explain the basic, fundametal correlation between the concept of emptiness and dependent origination, however, one image summed a great deal to me: "There is no flower in the sky" --take from that what you want, makes perfect sense to me.

Whenever I mention an interest in buddhism, people ask me if I'm a Buddhist. I never know how to respond, but I certainly wouldn't say that I am, that would be extremely arrogant and misleading of me. The one thing I've learned from many years of readings, attending lectures and meditation groups, etc, is that until you've moved beyond the level of intellectuallizing the materials, until you've expereinced them through deep reflection and meditation, you're not on par with the level of commitment it takes to truly call yourself a Buddhist. So no, I'm not a Buddhist. But perhaps in the future, perhaps not...

Regardless, I feel extremely blessed to have been in the Dalai Lama's presence. And that's all I need for now, nirvana can wait.

Sunday, March 11, 2007

DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME: How much daylight have you saved today?

I'm just going to lay my opinion out there, and I'm not gonna hold back--I think daylight savings is a sham. I am sooo confused this morning; I have asked four different people since waking up, and I don't believe that any of them really knows the truth: no one knows what time it is.

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A few days ago, my father told me that Saturday night would be the time to set my clocks ahead--he told me 10 or 11pm. Then I asked a few housemates and friends. One person said it wouldn't happen until tonight, another said it had happened just a few hrs ago; his friend concurred. But when I did my own investigation, I found an article (I believe it was the transcipt of an NPR story) which said DST happened at 2am Sunday (today).

This year's DST has actually been quite controversial, as Congress decided that the clocks in America would be "sprung ahead" on the 2nd Sunday of March, rather than the 1st Sun in April as an extra "time saving" bonus to us lucky sun lovers. This has created a mini-Y2K snafu, with most Microsoft applications set to change their systems' time settings in April.

But why do legislators all over the world feel the need to manipulate the time? Many people believe that DST was started by farmers in the midwest about 100 yrs ago, and has little to do with us city folks. Not true. Farmers actually complain about DST--when you rise at the crack of dawn, what difference does time make?

I can clearly recall living in northern Nevada as a 12 year-old girl, in a rural farming town called Gardnerville, where a school bus trip took nearly an hour. Once DST hit, my morning routine became nightmarish. I was accustomed to waking up without daylight; but to stand in my driveway, waiting for the bus in the dark, staring at the frozen grass and listening to cows being brought to the slaughter--this is why some kids drop out of school altogether.

In America, DST was made into law in 1883 at the request of railroad executives who just had to have that extra hour of good old-fashioned slave-driving. DST was in and out of vogue throughout the 20th century, most notably during WWII, when FDR called it "War Time"--that lasted for three years. Throughout the decades, Congress arbitrarily passes DST legislation, leaving it up to local jurisdictions as to whether or not to comply. But then in 1973, the Emergency Daylight Saving Time Energy Conservation Act was passed by Congress to last eight months, rather than six, saving an estimated 100,000 barrels of oil each day. The most recent congressional measure, the Energy Act of 2005, allows DST to start one month earlier in the spring, and one week later in the fall.

All this "saving of daylight" makes me worry about future power-mad time manipulators. We've got a "war president", whose to say he won't change the time again and make it "war time" all the time? What if some world leader decides that October is too short and decides to extend it? What if a small-town mayor doesn't like 2007 and wants 2008 to begin one week earlier? It madness, madness I say!

But until the voice of reason reaches our elected officials, just remember: spring ahead on the 2nd Sunday of March, and fall back on the first Sunday of November (why November? why the hell not?)

Friday, March 09, 2007

I AM SUCH A TERRIBLE BLOGGER

So I haven't gone near this blogspot thing in, wowie, almost one year. Bad, bad Amity. I actually had some technical difficulties with my last post, a most profound and reflective announcement of my departure from the UK and unsavory arrival to the US, where I was horrified by American culture, having trekked from Indiana to Ohio to visit my grandmother in the outskirts of Appalacia. Embittered, I stopped blogging for quite some time, thinking that there were more important things to do, like start a new, American life (okay so I think I really embraced British culture, so much so that I have a difficult time not thinking of myself as European sometimes. It's a wonder I didn't come back with a lame Madonna accent) here in beautiful San Francisco.

But back by popular demand (by one person in particular who shall go unnamed)--here I am! Yippee! And I hope that, you know, maybe my mom has some friends she can tell about my new and improved blog. That would be awesome.

At this very moment I am late for an appointment and have to dash, but cheers to my recently-updated blog!

xoxo amity

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

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A VACATION NOT TO BE SAVORED

Yesterday I decided to take a day trip down to Brighton with the flatmates to finally visit the ocean and all its ameneties after one whole year of separation.

I needed a break from the city, the news, and most importantly productivity in general. So onward to Brighton, which was very bright and right on, hence the name. To be honest I don't know much about the town's history, but I do now know a great deal about Prince Regent's Royal Pavilion, an Indian/Mosque-style palace that seems ill-suited for its prime spot in the city center--a more appropriate place would be next door to Vegas' Venetian Hotel.

Gout is what brought the young 20-something to Brighton in the late 18th c; he came for the therapeutic properties of the fresh sea water. The guy actually had his plumming fixed so that he could have his choice--sea water, freshwater, or normal water (whatever that meant back then) pumped into his bathtub. Since this dude didn't become King George IV until he was 58, he had a lot of time on his hands, as the Pavilion's poker-faced, uber-gaudy oriental motif can attest.

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Where the royal perv checked out ladies' hair and contemplated his next move.

What my Queen's English-speaking audio guide narrator failed to mention was that Georgie had another hobby other than Liberace-inspired interior design. He liked women, and he liked to cut off locks of their hair to be put in envelopes with their names on them after "intimate relations". Supposedly there were over 7,000 of these envelopes found in the palace.

The tour on the whole was uninspiring, but amusing nonetheless. We digressed, took a visit to the seaside.

The beach was rocky. And when I say rocky I mean, like, the sadistic younger cousin of sand--stones and such. We threw our towels on the rocks and layed out. At first I thought maybe it wouldn't be so bad, at least I wouldn't find unwanted beach stones in my bikini later. I couldn't get stones in my eyes or in my hair.

So I embraced the rocky beach, my friend Bobby even gave me a hot stone massage, which I'm sure I read was real big with the celebrities these days. It was almost relaxing, but the stones were pretty hot. And Brighton was in Palm Springs death mode when it came to heat, so the stones didn't help matters. So we swam, and it was glorious.

We then went to the Brighton Pier, a Victorian-era stretch of carnival games and rides, touristy pubs and fish and chips booths. After the two ice creams, "American-style" doughnut, and half bottle of Pimms, I really wasn't in the mood for fish and chips, like everyone else. I was determined to find some fresh oysters and/or mussels instead. Big mistake.

As everyone waited for me nearly a mile away, I found a shellfish stall and grabbed myself a 5 pound (as in currency, not weight) seafood platter with all sorts of unidentifiable crustaceans. I cannot explain my actions at this point, I don't know what it was that made me do it, but--I shoved a slimy, slug-looking creature into my mouth like it was a potato chip. After that, I ate tons of cockels, which nobody outside of a pikey East London pub (so says a British friend) should do. Cockels are the poor man's clams--they're scrawny pickled clams with bits of undigested sand still in their system. Also on board the ship of seafood hell were a few imitation crabs legs the size of infant's arms, and some chalky, cooked mussels. There were also a few miniscule shrimp thrown into the mix which only tasted of salt.

I don't know what brought this on, other than a bizarre psychological complex which compels me to crave seafood whenever I am surrounded by aquariums or the ocean.

Later we tried to jump aboard some rollercoasters but, go figure, in the dead of summer they were all under construction. I settled for the haunted house ride, which didn't upset my stomach as much as it should have, but was still good fun. All in all a good day, as my lobster-red skin won't let me forget the ocean and its ameneties.

Sunday, July 09, 2006

My trip to Spain, and the review it provided among other great things...

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I vaguely recall how it happened, but a few weeks ago I found a program that gave me a free trip to Spain for six days. The only hitch was that I had (btw sincere sarcasm in the word 'had') to spend five days in a four-star hotel and converse with some of the most charming people on the planet who simply needed practice speaking English. What I got was a concentrated dose of Spanish culture as told by Spaniards (btw and an awesome tan). Although there was not a lot of sight-seeing, I was able to check out the walls of Avilla and the capital city of Madrid for a few days. Little did I know, when I booked accomodations for my last night in Spain, that my hotel would be right next door to the art museum holding the Guernica. The following review, to be published on my future political arts website, ensued...

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Picasso’s Guernica: Tradition and Avant-garde
7.9.06

When Picasso’s now-iconic mural of the bombing of Guernica was unveiled at the Paris International Exhibition in 1937, it was met with coldness and discontent.

It was the middle of the Spanish Civil War, and the Spanish Left were wondering how this monochromatic, cubist monstrosity — at more than 11 feet high and 26 feet wide — of screaming women, children and animals, was going to advance the Spanish Republican cause. Where were the heroes in this painting, the vanguard that would bring the nationalists and the fascists down and proclaim victory?

To some, Picasso was short-sighted and indulgent in his depiction of suffering and destruction. He had missed the point of the exhibition. Alongside Guernica, a series of Spanish artists’ works were displayed proudly showing the glory of the resistance. One such piece was Alexander Calder’s Almadén, a fountain of water mixed with mercury to symbolize the prosperity of the town after a failed attack by General Franco. For it was Almadén’s mercury mines that made it a prime target for the nationalists, and the mercury-enriched water cheerily flowed like the waving of a victory flag.

Even at the height of Picasso’s career, the Guernica was not well-received. What those who initially dismissed his work did not realize was that Picasso would soon strike a chord in the hearts of millions the world over. With Guernica, Picasso portrayed one of the most endearing depictions of human suffering in war times. It is perhaps for this reason that Nelson Rockefeller donated a large reproduction of the work to hang in the Security Council Room of the United Nations. And perhaps it is for this reason that Colin Powell had a large blue curtain installed to shield the mural in 2003 for a televised press conference.

Beyond the Spanish Civil War, the Guernica was a telltale sign of things to come for Europe during WWII. Before that fateful bombing on April 26, 1937, the world had not seen such blatant use of civilians as military targets. In a town of seven thousand, 1,654 people were killed and 71 percent of the buildings were destroyed; all by German forces under Franco’s command. The ancient Basque city became a cause celebre around the world; and Picasso’s latest work was one with the zeitgeist.

Prior to Guernica, Picasso was a man with very little to zero interest in creating political art. In September of 1936, he had been commissioned by the Spanish government to contribute to the Paris exhibition. He sat on the assignment for eight months, and in that time had only come up with comic strips mocking General Franco entitled, Dream and Lie of Franco.

But on April 26, 1937, inspiration hit like a bolt of lightening; it struck via a Paris newspaper, as Picasso had been living there for the last few years. Five days later, the first sketchings of Guernica began, and would not end, even after the mural was complete. In total, there are more than sixty drawings pre and post-Guernica, all of which were not discovered until 1984.

Upon viewing the Guernica-related sketches, it is almost possible to see the line of thought behind the master; for what began as a very basic set of drawings (the scribblings of a child come to mind) slowly transforms into a very lucid vision of terror. The sketchings become a true meditation of fury, pain and heartache as seen through the eyes of women, children and animals.

In a close-up of a woman holding a child, for example, Picasso has pointedly given the character bulging, almost fish-like eyes searching the heavens, and a cavernous mouth with a piercing tongue lashing out. It is basic characteristics such as these that communicate so effectively with the viewer to reveal deep, horrific emotions. The humanity felt through Picasso’s sketches is ever-present; and its impact magnified to larger-than-life proportions through Guernica.

The great mural and its related drawings have held a home in Madrid since their relocation from the New York MOMA in 1981. Until the 3rd of September 2006, the museum will be celebrating this 25th anniversary with an exhibit called “Picasso: Tradition and the Avant-garde”. Among a treasure trove of Picasso works lye two very noteworthy pieces in the long history of visionary Spanish political art. Édouard Manet’s 1869 oil painting of the execution of the Emperor Maximilien and Goya’s The Execution of the Defenders of Madrid (1814) are portrayed as precursors to the political work of Picasso, especially when viewed alongside his 1951 piece, Massacre in Korea.

But as the Guernica firmly rests in Madrid, its spirit and message continue to float around the globe and through the ages assuring that the human cost of war will not be forgotten.

Friday, July 07, 2006

I AM SOO FASHIONABLE, part II

So a few months back I wrote a post about being real fashionable in my bizarre little houndstooth scarf. All I knew was, all the funky London kids who frantically plunder the Portobello market stalls every weekend had em. I saw a lady who worked for the Guardian wearing one at one point. I had to have one.

And then a friend pointed it out--I was wearing a keffiyeh, a tradtional head scarf worn by Palestinians. Trendy westerners started wearing them five years ago in the Bay Area, according to her, but out here in London they're just a quirky, table cloth-lookin houndstooth scarf and super-trendy. Palestine smalistine. I mean, I don't mind people thinking that I support Palestine, I'd just rather not wear my politics and religion on my sleeve, especially without knowing it.

A few weeks back I even noticed a cute little keffiyeh-style sun dress in a trashy fashion magazine. They called it the "Arabic print Religion dress", and claim 'it's such a cool holiday buy..wear it over your bikini!'
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This isn't the first time I've noticed mideast-infulenced fashion. This past spring, I wrote this article for an online magazine project for the theme of "political prisoners":

Political Prisoner Chic

This season’s Paris Fashion Week commenced in what seemed like standard catwalk fare: John Paul Gaultier’s gaunt beauties dressed in frayed, gothic messes to match the live dogs they walked in with, Comme Des Garcons paired gender-bending dress and suit combos with Venice carnival masks, and some designers even presented models with complete head masks. Yes, complete head masks. If political prisoner chic were ever in fashion, this is what it would look like.

Top designers such as Viktor & Rolf, Undercover, and British fashion legend Vivienne Westwood saw models donning head masks — some of which eerily resembled those worn by torture victims in Abu Ghraib Prison.

At Viktor and Rolf, 50s-era secretary styles teamed with fencing face masks to compliment fishnet stockings, creating a sinister take on the classic feminine suit dress. The suitably named Undercover presented models that had apparently lost an epic battle of fabric vs. man. Not one inch of flesh was shown, as tall boots, gloves, and of course head masks all meshed together in one monotonous blend of neutral tones. The head coverings were especially troubling, however, as they appeared as nothing more than thin sacks tied up to created a point at the top. Models were reportedly stumbling and bumping into each other throughout the show, as they were blinded considerably.

At Vivienne Westwood, a few of the ensembles included knitted head wear which could only be described as a tilted sack stitched together by a colorblind African tribeswoman. While the shape of the head gear was straight out of Abu Ghraib, the colors and patterns made the whole concept of a head mask seem almost cheery.
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And while these ostensibly innocuous accessories were not directly linked to torture victims in Abu Ghraib, Westwood’s collection was dedicated to high profile American prisoner Leonard Peltier. Native American Leonard Peltier was given two consecutive life sentences after being charged with the killings of two FBI agents in a standoff at Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in 1975.

Peltier’s guilty status is highly contested throughout the world. Now approaching his 30th year of imprisonment, Peltier is considered a political prisoner by Amnesty International, the UN High Commissioner on Human Rights, and the European Parliament.

Just last month, a District Judge in New York overturned an appeal to release FBI documents regarding the incident at Pine Ridge as it was in the interest of “national security” to keep the records private.

Westwood, who has campaigned adamantly for Peltier’s release over the years, told Reuters, “Leonard Peltier is innocent,” while pointing to an illustration of a blue, winged penis with the words “Innocent” on it. The penis, according to Westwood, is a Greek symbol of good luck.

Thursday, July 06, 2006

OK, I SERIOUSLY NEED THIS JOB

In the gumtree classifieds (a Craigslist for Brits), I found it, my dream job: A writer and editor and receptionist to tourists at the Sherlock Holmes Museum. I would write articles for the cleverly titled, "Baker Street Times" (where the museum is located, as well as Holmes' supposed home). My name is all over this job. It must be mine.

This would involve, according to the ad, some creative writing skills, effective communication skills to greet international visitors, and an enthusiasm for the Victorian era.

Before I could email the museum, I did some research and thoroughly read up on Victorian slang, popular art such as fairy paintings done by absinthe and opium-heads, Victorians and the paranormal, Victorians and the fear of science and technology (i.e. Frankenstein),Dickens, etc. etc. I am now the Victorian expert.

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The Fairy's Funeral, John Anster Fitzgerald


They asked for example articles and I provided ample--one about a prostitute (they called them "dollywops")washed ashore the River Thames, one about a skeptical doctor who died during a seance, and one about a theif known for targeting art dealers' carriages.

Still waiting to hear back from them...

Oh yeah, and Kenneth Lay is still dead. Surprisingly not roaming the mean streets of Aspen trolling for young maidens whose blood he can suck with the assistance of enormous canine teeth.

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

BRITISH DEPUTY PRIME MINISTER, GAMBLING, DOMES

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The Millennium Dome in London. Future site of Elvis impersonators and all-you-can-eat lobster feasts?

The other morning, as I lay in bed with Radio4 in the background, my conscious had a massive civil war with my subconscious.

This is how I "wake up" in the morning, getting my daily dose of the best news radio program in the world. Problem is, sometimes I can't differentiate between my dreams and the top British stories. This morning I could have sworn I heard something about Deputy Prime Minister John Prescott, the Millennium Dome, and casinos--super casions, to be exact.

Later in the day I found out, fully conscious, about the whole sordid Prescott story. It wasn't a dream after all.

Just some background: this is the third Prescott scandal in the last two months, and these Limeys just can't get enough! First, there was the affair with the secretary (pretty big fuss)then, about a month later, he was caught PLAYING CROQUET on his country estate when he was supposed to be in the office (massive fuss), and now this--the man was found to be "in bed" so to speak with the billionaire owner of the Millenium Dome who wants to turn it into London's first super-casino.

Prescott was found to have visited the Texas ranch of billionaire Dome owner Philip Anschutz a total of SEVEN times, on the British taxpayers' dime. I mean, to the British, this is a huge deal, it's like, as crazy as paying billions per year to keep an old lady prancing around in a royal palace with outrageous million-dollar tiaras! Outrageous!

The interview this morning between Radio4's John Humphreys and Prescott showed the ever-intrepid John Humphreys in top form. Excerpt from interview:

Humphreys: Why should the British taxpayer pick up the bill for you and indeed your officials going to stay with a very rich man to indulge your interest in cattle and cowboys?

Deputy PM Prescott: Well, I would say it's a...as to whether the charity money should be used, that's a legitimate point made and I would, I never got into the details of it, I just assumed all those matters of payment for accommodation wherever you were [unintelligible] was cleared and arranged by the Department and that's what happened, and you're quite right to raise that question but in fact it wasn't one that was put to me.

Pow! Kazam! Take that bumbling jerkface.

Sunday, April 09, 2006

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Last christmas' Tussauds version of the manger scene featuring Samuel L Jackson, Blair, Bush, Kylie Minogue and the of course the Beckhams.

NO CAUSE TO WAX LYRICAL
Just the other week, my travel writing instructor decided to surprise everyone by taking us to Madame Tussauds Wax Museum. It was an early Saturday morning, and I had not prepared myself for the journey that lay ahead.

First of all, I never made an attempt to go the "museum" on my own, on the grounds that I had visited the Hollywood Wax Museum as a small child and was genuinely freaked out by the experience. Second, that fateful Saturday morning I was in a surreal, barely-functional state known as the hangover. And my assumptions that these otherworldy wax monsters would be quaintly tucked away behind a glass partition was blown as I suddenly found myself surrounded by these things. My gut instinct was to equate them with human taxodermy.

Let me just say that Tussauds is an amazing institution in many respects. Madame Tussaud began making her statues in the late 18th c. A housekeeper of a physician who used wax statues for medical studies, Tussaud took waxworking to a whole new level by re-creating scenes from the French Revolution by using actual decaptitated hands and heads as her models. Today, you can see these same figures restored in all their morbid glory.

The first room you enter gives a clear indication as to just what the frequenters of the museum want: they want to pose with "celebrities", and they want to capture it on film. Basically, you enter a room designed to look like a Hollywood gala. You've got Madonna sitting on a bench with "VIP" written in the background, you've got Travolta, Cruise, Pitt and Angelina, you've got your Lopez prominently displaying her backside, and you've got all the mundane British celebrities your bubblegum-chewing brain can take before going into d-list celebrity overload, like Graham Norton or some cheesy celebrity chef.

The room with prominent historical figures is eerily quizzical, to say the least. Hitler is beside Churchill, Bush and Blair stand side by side, with Sadam to Bush's right and Jamie Oliver to Blair's left. Sadam was barely recognizable. I thought he could pass for Fidel Castro's brother. He was clad in a plain khaki jumpsuit with a very large semi-automatic weapon strapped to his leg.

I highly encourage anyone in or visiting the London metropolitan area to pay your respects to Tussaud. These statues are so bizarre; so creepily similar to their real-life counterparts. And you are allowed to touch them. When I stroked the balding head of London mayor Ken Livingstone, I swear it was real human hair.

The Las Vegas Tussauds just this week unveiled its Tupac Shakur statue, fittingly, in an odd, somewhat "ironic" (to use the term in its improper form, here I am referring to the term as defined by Alanis Morrisette), kind of way as Shakur was in fact gunned down in sin city.

"Museums" like this, as kitschy and pointless as they may appear, reflect so much about a society and culture if heroes and icons are anything to go by.

Saturday, April 08, 2006

I LOVE TO JOG, AND I'LL TELL YOU WHY

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A view of London from the top of Parliament Hill in the Hampstead Heath.

A lot of people find jogging--and joggers--boring, but I've always been fortunate enough to jog in some of the most amazing places in the world and, in a sense, have felt more connected to them by doing so.

As Guy Browning, one of my favorite Guardian columnists wrote:
"Jogging, like heavy metal, becomes interesting only when done at an intensity that threatens to burst something vital to the body."

I was reflecting on that just this morning, as I nearly choked on the crisp, chilly air like an emphysema patient with a clogged voice box. Now I have suffered a lack of cardiovascualr activities in recent times, but in this case I was making a fighting effort to tackle a very steep hill. Parliament Hill in Hampstead Heath to be exact, where you can view all of London--including the Gherkin and the London Eye.

I haven't properly jogged since I lived in Santa Cruz, where, in just under five minutes, I could reach a beach with a Coney Island-style boardwalk to the right of me, and a yacht harbor complete with light house to the left. Just before that, I was living near Capitol Hill; in 10 minutes of jogging I could reach the Washington Monument, running along the Reflecting Pool and culminating in a visit to ole Honest Abe.

But I reckon that most people, even those living in the most gentrified mess of tract-home hell that is suburbia, can find a sense of pride and connectedness with their surroundings by simply putting their feet to the pavement and roaming free. The mundane can become active and alive; the foreign and unfamiliar becomes your playground.